Lights Out
by Enlee
Summary: House decides to stick a knife into an outlet...House/Wilson slash. The last chapter is now up. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

When I heard that Greg had stuck a knife into an outlet and had nearly killed himself in the process, I thought it was a joke. It had to be. But that thought lasted a full split-second before it was replaced by another one: The bastard was crazy enough to pull such a stunt. Why he would do such a stupid thing, I didn't know yet. I'm waiting for him to wake up so I can get the answer straight from him, then I'll decide whether or not to kill him myself and save him the trouble of blowing out another outlet.

He had been doing well, or at least I thought he had. I had been keeping a close eye on him after my devious plot to drug his coffee with antidepressants went awry. He was still cranky as hell and his mood swings returned, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. I think it had finally sunk in that I was here for him, something he could take advantage of and fully appreciate. Not that he would actually talk about what was bothering him. Most of the time he just lounged with me and wanted me to stroke his neck or have an arm around him. That's what he liked. He wouldn't talk about it and I couldn't make him. But sitting with me made him happy, and if he was happy then I was happy.

Then he turned around and tried to electrocute himself. Now he's unconscious and I'm just a little bit pissed off. When I asked his potential fellows what the hell had happened, they couldn't answer. The only one who had actually seen anything was a very agitated Amber, who rambled on and on about receiving a page from House, seeing a bright flash of light as she walked to his office, and finding him on the floor with no pulse.

So it wasn't some freak suicide attempt. He made damn good and sure someone would be there at just the right moment, preferably someone who knew CPR and was trying to get on his good side so he would hire her.

Pretty damn clever, I have to admit.

But the still didn't explain what the hell he was hoping to accomplish by sending tens of thousands of volts into his body.

I sat by his hospital bed, alternating between staring at his face and at the bandage on his burned hand.

A soft grunt, then his eyes fluttered open. He looked around the room and didn't seem too surprised to see where he was. Then he looked over at me. If I didn't know any better I would have to say that he looked both surprised and relieved to see me there. We have had plenty of ups and downs, and I'm not sure where this ranks yet, but it's not the straw that broke the camel's back. The camel has nothing to worry about yet.

His blue eyes were still looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

So I did what he would have done. I told him exactly what was on my mind.

"You're an idiot," I said.

* * *

The drive home was unusually quiet. Any other time he would be babbling a mile a minute about a case, clinic patients, traffic, the downfall of civilization as we know it, monster trucks, his lust for Carmen Electra, what I would be making for dinner. Not tonight. He just sat there with his hands in his lap, staring out the window, like a kid who knows he's going to be punished for misbehaving as soon as he gets home. How he expected me to punish him, I don't know. I wasn't. I just wanted some answers, whether he was ready to talk or not. I wanted to make sure he was going to be alright. I wanted him to promise he would never do anything stupid like that again. I wanted him to know the hell he had put me through the last day or so.

I held the front door open as he limped in.

"How's your hand?" I asked. "Do you need the bandage changed?"

"No, it's fine."

I watched as he made straight for the sofa, collapsing on it with a loud exhale of relief.

Whatever relief he was feeling was short-lived. I chose that moment to interrupt.

"Greg?"

"Hmmm?"

"What the hell were you doing?"

"I'm sitting here."

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "No, Greg, I didn't ask what _are_ you doing. I asked what _were_ you doing? Today, in your office. You know, the knife and electrical outlet? What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

Resting his head on the back of the sofa, he glanced over at me and said, "I was looking."

"For what?" My voice was getting louder. I wasn't in the mood to play games with him, not now, not after what had happened. "To see how long your heart could go without beating before you were brought back? A more efficient electric chair? To see if the fucking outlet worked? What the hell were you looking for?"

His head tilted towards me, and his answer was the craziest thing that ever spilled from his lips. It hit me like the electrical shock must have hit him; my legs suddenly turned to Jello and I dug my nails into my palm to make sure this wasn't a dream. The pain told me this was all very real, as did the blood dripping down my fingers.

"I was looking for God," he said calmly.


	2. Chapter 2

"You don't believe in God," I said.

"No, I don't."

"You're an atheist."

"Yes, I am," he answered, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

"So…why were you looking?"

"I wanted to see if there really is a God."

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I was beginning to think that a variation of that definition applied in my case--over and over again I think that I may finally know what drives him, what makes him do the things he does. Then just when I think I have it more or less figured out, he turns around and does something so off the wall that I question his sanity as well as mine. Like now, an atheist sticking a knife into an outlet to see if God is real. Maybe the two of us should spend a few days relaxing in the psych ward.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" I asked as I went over the sofa and sat down next to him.

"No," he replied with a heavy sigh. He didn't sound disappointed; more like he was irritated with wasting his time on a fruitless search.

"You didn't just turn around and decide to electrocute yourself," I pointed out. "What led you to it?"

He opened his eyes again and looked at me. "There was a kid in the clinic who claimed he had met God. He stuck a knife into an outlet to say howdy to God again. He was so sure that he would. That's what struck me…the kid was so _sure_ of himself. He walked right over the outlet and jammed the knife into it without a second thought. Yeah, I don't believe in God but there are several billion people who do in one form or another. Maybe they're on to something. Maybe that kid was onto something. Maybe I had spent so much time denying God's existence that I didn't see Him right in front of my face."

"But you didn't see anything."

"That's right. I didn't. I blew out the electricity in my office for nothing. Cuddy's probably going to make me pay for the electrician."

"This isn't about your damn office. You could have died, Greg."

"I didn't."

"Did you even think of me when you decided to introduce the knife to the outlet?"

"I was afraid you wouldn't be there when I woke up," he admitted, sounding completely sincere. "But I wasn't about seek you out and ask your permission to take the knife and the outlet out on a date if that's what you're really asking."

No, he wouldn't have. But that wasn't what I was interested in knowing.

"What if I hadn't been there when you woke up?"

"I would have been pissed."

Indeed. "Have you always been an atheist, Greg?"

"No."

I raised an eyebrow and tried to ask the question as gently as possible so he wouldn't get riled up for the rest of the night. The best I could come up with was, "What made you change your mind?"

His gaze shifted to the ceiling. "My dad was supposed to be a good Christian. But I knew what he was really like. If my dad was the best church and God had to offer, well then, I decided that I would risk roasting in Hell for the rest of eternity rather than risk spending five minutes in Heaven with my father."

Greg almost never talked about his father, but his words dripped with anger and venom whenever he did. This time was no exception. Forty-eight years worth of hatred towards his father was buried deep down and I didn't want to dig it up, especially when none of this really had anything to with his father to begin with. Time to get off that subject.

"I think you're wrong," I said.

"About my father?"

"About God not existing."

"You believe in God, Jimmy?"

"Yes."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you afraid?"

"Of what?"

"God smiting you. Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone. Be careful, Jimmy."

"What are you talking about?"

His eyes turned back to me, their gaze iced cold. "You're a man who spent all three of his marriages coveting every wife but his own, and now spends all of his free time committing the unforgivable sin of fucking another man. You shouldn't go outside anymore, you might get hit by lightning, _sinner_."


	3. Chapter 3

He always hit where it hurt. That's one thing he has always been good at. He was trying to get a reaction out of me, trying to pick a fight, and I wasn't going to give in so easily. Not tonight, and especially I had no idea what the hell he was so angry and frustrated about to begin with.

I pushed my rising anger back down, kept my calm and cool demeanor and said, "My wives have nothing to do with this, so lets just leave them out. All right?"

The iciness in his eyes melted a bit. He looked away and grumbled to himself.

"Greg, what's the matter?"

"It's…I don't know…everything."

"Everything?" I puzzled. "That's quite a lot…,"

"Not enough," he muttered, then turned his attention back to me. "Maybe you can answer this question, or at least give me some insight: How come God will show Himself to some yahoo kid within lunging distance of an outlet, but not to me?"

"You don't believe in God," I said.

"That's not what I asked," he said tersely. "Now answer me, you queer sinner, why would God show Himself to that kid and not to me?"

"I don't have an answer."

"God only knows?"

"Something like that."

"If you had to guess…,"

"Well," I began, hoping to give him something to think about so he would shut up and watch television and leave me in peace. "If I were to offer a guess and only a guess, I'd say it was because the kid believed that's what he would see, so that's what he saw."

"So you're saying that I didn't have enough faith when I shoved that knife into the outlet." Greg seemed strangely amused at the thought. He looked over his bandaged hand like it was the most fascinating thing in the room.

"Your words, not mine," I said quickly, more than a little weirded out by the faint smile that had crept on his face. "But yeah, I think you didn't see God because you didn't believe He would be there."

"So God is all in the mind?"

"In some ways, yes."

"If God made man in His own image, does that mean God is a crippled drug addict?"

"You didn't start life as a crippled drug addict," I reminded him. The man would go miles out of his to prove he was right. Whether he was right or not didn't really matter in the end; all the fun was in the argument getting there. He also wanted an argument. Sometimes he argued just to argue, like now. I wasn't going to fall into his trap; I was just going to answer his questions as best I could until he got tired of playing.

"But I ended up one. Is God punishing me?" he asked.

"No."

"But you do believe in God, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"So why did I end up crippled? If God isn't punishing me, why did it happen?"

"I can't answer that. It happened because it happened, that's all I know."

"Do you believe things happen because God wants them to happen?"

"Sometimes."

"There's no middle ground here, Jimmy."

"I don't--"

"You believe in God even though God hates queers like us."

"I don't believe that," I said. "God loves everyone."

"Even me?"

"Even you."

"That's nice," he said coldly. "Is this where I see the light and the errors of my ways?"

"If you want."

"Nope, not tonight. No rest for the wicked. You know, a tornado could drop out of the sky right now, blow the apartment to smithereens and kill us both. Is that an act of nature or an act of God?"

"Only if God can make tornadoes come out of a clear sky," I pointed out. "There's no rain in the forecast."

"Say a tornado comes along out of nowhere, wrecks the place and kills you," he went on. He put up his hand when he saw me begin to protest. "This is just hypothetical, don't get all bent out of shape. Where was I…right, the tornado has passed and I'm standing over the splinters that were once part of my home and your mangled corpse. My life as I know it is gone with the wind, so to speak. Nothing will ever be the same. The person I love most in the world is dead at my feet. Do I have a right to be devastated at the injustice of it all, at this act of nature or God or whatever? Do I have that right at all? Or am I supposed to smile and go on my merry way because even though my whole life has been wiped out in a few seconds, God still loves me."

I closed my eyes and bit my lip so hard the coppery taste of blood covered my tongue. When I found my voice, I asked, "Are you mocking me for believing in God?"

"No. Believe all you want, I don't care. I'm letting you know why I believe in science and facts. I believe in what I can see and feel, and why I shouldn't go around sticking knives into outlets just because someone else thought it was good idea. I believe things happen around me because of what I do or don't do." He smiled at me, a smile that had a touch of warmth in it. "Now I believe I should get drunk and forget this whole conversation ever happened."


	4. Chapter 4

"Bring that back here, now!" Greg hollered after me as I took his bottle of bourbon back into the kitchen.

"No."

"Jimmy, bring it--"

"You've had enough," I called, shoving the bottle into the cupboard.

"That's my booze! Mine! Now bring it back here, you fucking queer!" His words were slurred and the bourbon hadn't exactly lightened his mood, not that it was happy-go-lucky to begin with.

Opening the fridge and taking out the ginger ale, I said, "If you want it so bad, you can come in here and get it yourself."

He wouldn't get up and get his booze, and I was counting on that. He'd rather sit there and insult me for the rest of the night, blame it on the drinking and hardly remember it the next morning.

"Fuck you!" he bellowed.

"Calling me names and throwing a tantrum isn't going to make your booze magically reappear. You're already drunk enough. Unless you want to wake up with a raging hangover to go along with your raging leg pain and raging burned hand, I suggest you calm down and relax."

"Fucking queer!"

Ignoring him, I finished pouring two glasses of ginger ale and brought them out to the living room. His death glare was enough to shatter the glasses in my hand and make a bloody, dripping mess.

I held a glass out to him. He didn't take it, and I didn't take the bait. I set the glass down on the table and took mine over to my place one the sofa.

"You really showed me," I muttered, sipping my drink.

"Sinner," he grumbled.

"Drunk," I grumbled right back.

I waited for him to kick his drink off the table, but it thankfully remained. He didn't go get his booze, either, and that was a good thing; he would probably fall on his face if he tried to stand up. So he had to make do with sitting there and glowering. We stared at the television and watched his stupid wrestling shows. It was awful, but I didn't complain. Then I would have ended up cleaning a puddle of ginger ale off the floor. Besides, after what he had been through over the last few days, he certainly deserved to watch what he wanted for a few hours. After a while he reached for his glass and took a long gulp.

"Hey," he said.

"What?" I turned and saw that he was looking at the bandage on his hand like he had found the answer to a difficult case.

"This thing has been on for a while. I need a new bandage."

Without hesitation I got up and returned with a bowl of luke-warm soapy water, a new bandage and ointment. Taking off the old bandage, we were greeted with angry red skin and some nice, ripe blisters. In other words, the fool had had the hell burned out of his hand.

"You should switch your cane to your left hand until this heals." I said, washing his hand while trying to use as little pressure as possible.

"I can't walk with the cane in my left hand."

"It's only for a few weeks. If you keep putting pressure on the burn, the blisters are going to break open and get infected."

"Wow, did you learn how to treat burns when you went to med school or something? What a coincidence, so did I!" He frowned, then cursed under his breath as I applied the ointment. "Just put a few extra layers of bandages on."

"You need to let it heal."

"And I need to walk. Now put some extra bandages on before I gag you, hog-tie you, and throw you on the front stoop for the night."

"How?" I threw an irritated glance at him, then went back to wrapping up his hand like a mummy. "You're still too drunk to stand and can't even make a fist with your right hand, let alone drag me outside with it."

"Thank you for that reminder. It makes me feel all pretty inside."

"You're quite welcome. I'll be sure to have antibiotics ready for when your hand gets infected. Now if had managed to restrain yourself from pulling that exceptionally stupid stunt to begin with, we wouldn't be here sniping at each other. If that kid had said he saw God every time he jumped off the roof of a hospital, would you have tried that, too?"

"No, that would have been silly."

"And the knife thing was…what? A brilliant plan?"

"I had to see for myself," he replied, then rubbed his head as if he were in pain. "Fuck, I didn't get drunk enough. Why did you take my bourbon away, dammit? Now I'm going to remember all of this tomorrow and it's all your fault."


	5. Chapter 5

I put the bowl in the sink, then put bandages and ointment away.

Back out in the living room he had switched from wrestling to soaps. He knew all the character names, the actor names, who was sleeping with who. I couldn't tell one soap from another; they were interchangeable as far as I'm concerned. But Greg was absorbed in the action. Onscreen were two busty nurses fighting over a pretty-boy brain surgeon. Like that ever happened in the real world. I sat down next to him and he was doing a wonderful job of ignoring me.

Not for long.

I tugged on his arm. That got his attention as he turned to me with a confused questioning look. I gave him a smile and he nearly smiled back. A few more tugs and I had him in my arms, his head resting on my shoulder. His perpetual stubble tortured my skin as usual. He didn't care, and I didn't really care anymore either. There were bigger things to care about than whisker burns. Much bigger things.

"I'm here for you, Greg," I said.

"I know."

"If something is bothering you, you can come to me. We can try and work it out."

"I know," he repeated.

"Then why didn't you come to me about this?"

He sat up and said, "Because like the other forty times I told you, I wanted to know and there was only way to get that answer. Besides, you would have stopped me. You would have run right to Cuddy and she would have child-proofed all the outlets in the hospital. Then you would have child-proofed all the outlets in here. How would you blow-dry your hair?"

He was right that I would have run right to Cuddy. But given Greg and some of his wild ideas, it sometimes takes two people to get him back down to earth.

"All this for a God you don't believe in," I said incredulously. "I just don't get it."

"You never will, so don't try."

"But you did believe in God once. Isn't that what you told me?"

"Yes."

"Then you stopped believing because of your father."

"That's what I said."

"What did your father do?"

His gaze darkened, and he looked right past me, focusing on some long ago memories.

Whenever Greg talked about his father it was always short and to the point, his voice barely concealing the rage he felt towards the man. That kind of rage doesn't just come out of nowhere; it builds up over the years, hiding just under the surface. Greg hated the man, and I'm sure the feeling was mutual in the senior House. It didn't come from two people simple being unable to see eye to eye, of two people being so different there was no way they could ever get along. The hatred Greg felt not only hit the bone, but shattered it into a million jagged, splintered pieces.

I long suspected Greg had been abused and was about to be proven right.

Greg didn't exactly spill his guts. He just said quietly, "It was a lot of things."

"Like what?" I was pressing my luck and knew it. But I wanted to hear what he would say, if anything.

"Too many to count. It was a long time ago. I'd rather not talk about it right now, if you don't mind. I want to finish watching my soaps."

"Greg--"

"Jimmy…_don't_."

"Like you said, it was a long time ago. There's nothing--"

"I also said that I don't want to talk about it."

"You can talk to me. You know that."

His cold eyes met mine and I shivered. "Unless you want to take a bath in ice water I suggest you drop the subject. _Now_."

The room was suddenly freezing. No, it was just Greg and his words. His words rang in my ears. _A bath in ice water_. It was so random, so strange, so out there that it had to be real. Even he wasn't deranged enough to make that up.

_A bath in ice water_.

I was right. Good God, I was right.


	6. Chapter 6

I didn't ask him any more questions about his father. If I didn't know any better I'd say he was grateful for it.

Getting zapped with who knows how many volts of electricity had taken its toll on Greg, and he spent the rest of the evening dozing on and off in front of the television. Of course, he draped himself across my lap, not that I actually minded. I didn't mind it when he strangely insisted on holding my hand. Every now and then I gave his hand a gentle squeeze or rubbed my thumb along his palm to remind him I was there, and I was listening if he wanted to talk. No, he didn't want to talk. In fact he barely said a dozen words when he wasn't dozing, but he did squeeze my hand back once or twice.

Eventually Greg began to moan about headache trying to take hold along with everything else. He stood up and tried half-heartedly to pull me up with him. I told him I'd join him as soon as I got everything cleaned up. He mumbled something that sounded like _don't take too fucking long_, then stalked off to the bathroom.

I washed up the dishes, then washed up myself, the stumbled into the bedroom. The lamp was still on; the ever-present bottle of Vicodin underneath the warm glow. He was flat on his back, eyes closed, his bandaged hand stretched over the edge of the bed like he had been reaching for something but fell asleep before he could grab hold of it.

My hip brushed his fingers as I walked over to turn the lamp off. His hand twitched, otherwise he remained still.

That outstretched hand reaching for…what?

Instead of switching the light off I found myself skimming my hand over his, brushing up against the bandage. Those long pianist fingers that always looked so graceful over the eighty-eight keys. Those long fingers that loved to play with my hair, that I loved having all over me.

That hand clamped onto my wrist, not as hard as he could have because of the burn, but it was enough to catch my by surprise and nearly knock me off balance.

He growled, "I told you not to take too long", as he pulled me down until I was nearly laying on top of him.

"I didn't," I protested while trying to keep my weight off his bad leg.

"Coulda fooled me." He grabbed the sides of my face with those talented hands, his expression strangely tense and serious. "You thought I was asleep. You always were a gullible little queer."

"You don't seem to mind."

"I don't, and you don't seem to mind either. Then again, a little gullibility hardly matters when you're living in sin."

"I'm not living in sin."

He chuckled and said, "Right. I would have said 'shacking up' but that sounded just a bit too rude. 'Living in sin' has that nice hellfire and brimstone ring to it, don't you think? The good doctors spending eternity down South. No matter how many lives we save there's still going to be a pitchfork with our names on it. Pat Robertson would beam with pride, then have a stroke if he saw us kissing in public."

"Do you believe we're going to Hell, Greg?"

"I believe in Hell as much as I believe in God, so the answer is _no_."

"We're not going to Hell. And we're not 'shacking up', as you put it."

"Tell me, Jimmy, what is it?"

"I'm living with the person I love. There's nothing wrong with that."

"And if there was?"

"So be it."

His expression softened with that answer; it obviously pleased him. His hands loosened their grip on my face and fluttered lightly through my hair, only to grab my shoulders and roll me over on to my back. The covers twisted around his waist. The intensity was back in his face, along with a crooked half-smile. He looked at me like a starving man presented with a big juicy steak.

"Gullible, but not a fool," he remarked quietly, almost to himself. "Any blithering idiot can answers my questions with what I want to hear. It's takes a special kind of person to answer my questions with the actual answers."

"I know how you feel about fools," I said. "You don't suffer them gladly."

"Never have and never will." The bandaged hand pulled up my shirt and began to rub my belly. Damn, that felt so very good. "I don't like wasting my time with people who actually believe there's a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow."

"What is at the end of the rainbow?" I had to ask.

"Another cloud waiting to rain on their parade," he answered with a knowing grin.

"Does that cloud have a silver lining?"

A few beats of silence, then he replied, "We'll see. Now get under the covers."

He had to untangle himself first, but soon we were both under the blankets. A snick of the switch and the room was plunged into darkness. He wasted no time in picking up where he had left off; the bandaged hand was back brushing up against my skin. Even that gentle touch must have bothered the burn and the blisters a little too much as he soon quit, much to my disappointment, and just wrapped his right arm around my waist and burrowed his scruffy face against my neck.

"Did you ever find your pot of gold, Jimmy?"

"I thought I did. Three times. But it's not real and I'm not going to waste my time chasing it anymore."

"Well said."

"I'd rather have the silver lining that was in the dark clouds of my divorces."

"That's a nice thing to say."

"I thought so too."

"Be sure to carry an umbrella," he said. "You of all people should know how much you need it."


	7. Chapter 7

The next week or so was rather quiet. Greg appeared to have mellowed out for the time being. Of course, nearly being electrocuted would mellow most anyone out for a while. Most nights were spent on the sofa with his legs stretched across my lap, his head resting on my shoulder, and him dozing on and off in front his shows. I knew he would go back to his whacked-out sleep schedule soon enough and did nothing to discourage his nightly catnaps. His hand was healing up rather nicely, and I dutifully cleaned it and changed the bandage every night, never saying a word that I knew he was making his new underlings tend to it as well.

So it started out as one of those nights. The remains of our sandwiches, chips and drinks still littered the table. He was dozing away as I relaxed and read a medical journal. One of his stupefying monster truck shows was playing away at low volume with Greg's equally low snoring mixing in with the faint engine roars. He would strangle me if I dared change it or turn it off, so I settled for turning down the volume and reading an article about new treatments for Alzheimer's disease. His hair tickled my neck but I ignored it, not wanting disturb the rest he needed and deserved.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," he suddenly muttered as he stretched his legs.

"How so?" I asked, turning to see him move his head to rest against the back of the sofa, a vague smile on his face. "And you don't believe in The Lord, remember? Or have you suddenly seen the light and accepted God into your heart?"

Ignoring the second part of my comment, he said, "God always does things the hard way."

"Not always."

"But you admit He does sometimes."

"Strange things do happen. I can't deny that. But I can't say if that's God doing things the hard way or things just happening in a strange way."

"Was God having an off day when he made me?"

"No. God knew exactly what He was doing. He broke the mold when he made you."

He seemed more amused than anything with that answer. "Was God having an off day when He made the platypus?" Greg asked.

I laughed and said, "I think God just has a weird sense of humor. He just wanted to show off His imagination."

"I think God was stoned was he did that. Only someone tripping out on some real good shit could dream up something like that."

"If that's what you want to think."

"You're not going call me out for being blasphemous or sacrilegious or whatever?"

"Not tonight."

"Why not tonight? Do you have it penciled into your schedule tomorrow?" He looked at me, honestly surprised that I wasn't going to argue with him.

"Because that's who you are. It's hardly the first time you've been blasphemous, goddammit." He laughed and I laughed with him. "Now if you suddenly bought a Bible and started shouting 'Hallelujah!', that's when I would start to worry."

"Religion is a form of mental illness."

"With you it would be."

"You're mentally ill, Jimmy. I should have you committed."

"While I'm there I'll make sure your room is ready."

"Better yet, I'll come to the synagogue with you. You can show off your hot stud to all the jealous Rabbis."

"You don't have to."

"You don't want me to convert for you, Jimmy? I'm crushed."

"Nope. I like you just the way you are, thanks." With that I slipped my hand around the back of his and brought his mouth to meet mine.

A sound from the back of his throat, then he gave in. My hair was soon fisted in his hands and my hands moved down to clutch handfuls of his shirt. No God or Heaven or Hell, just the two of us and we can't be close enough to each other. He kissed me back and it was desperate and raw and hungry, it was Greg House with his defenses down, it was Greg House giving up control for one fleeting moment and letting himself enjoy it.

He breaks the kiss and pulls me into him. The closeness, the intimacy, everything he craved and didn't know why or how to put it into words, he just knew it was there and he could have all he wanted. It was his to take.

"You've never wanted me change," he said, threading his fingers my hair. My scalp was a bit sore from where handfuls of my hair had been yanked in his fists just a minute earlier.

"No."

"Everyone thinks they can change me, fix me. Just a few hugs will make it all better."

"I knew better than to think that," I said.

"Because you knew I wouldn't change?"

"Because I knew you didn't want to change."

"Thank you, Jimmy."

"You're welcome." I held his bandaged hand. "You are who you are. You are as God made you."


	8. Chapter 8

He needed me to make sure that everything will be okay. He needed me to help him come back down to earth when he goes too far above the clouds. That's why he had draped himself across my lap over the last few days; he really had been afraid that I wouldn't be there when he woke up in the hospital. Now I have more than enough reason to believe that he was afraid that I won't be there when he woke up from his catnap. Of course if I wasn't on the sofa then I was in the kitchen or the bathroom or in the bedroom changing my clothes. Not that those simple explanations matter to someone as insecure as Greg. If I happened to be out of his sight I was gone for good until proven otherwise.

But there was nothing to worry about at the moment. He enjoyed the kiss I had given him and came back for another one. Gentle and affectionate, two things that weren't usually associated with him; the burning of his rough beard against my chin contrasting with the intimate moment we were enjoying together.

There was a tugging on the front of my shirt. He was trying to undo the buttons and doing an absolutely terrible job of it.

"Need some help?" I asked, and chuckled at his clumsiness. The only time he was ever that clumsy was when he was too drunk to care or too filled with lust too care. And since he had crashed on the sofa as soon as he got home four hours earlier, I knew damn good and well he wasn't the least bit drunk.

I moved to push his hand away, but he just pushed mine right back. "I can handle it," he grumbled, sounding a bit irritated.

My shirt, which had been crisp just that morning, was by then wrinkled beyond all recognition. Such a small price to pay while living with Gregory House. My dry cleaners certainly appreciated the extra business. I turned around to give him better access before he wound up ripping all the buttons off again. Before I had a chance to start on the buttons of his perpetually wrinkled clothes, he pulled me in for another deep, heated kiss, stealing my breath, and my head was filled with static by the time he pulled away.

The I found myself flat on my back as he devoured my neck, the tender skin there covered with his warm kisses and scratchy stubble. He was obviously in no hurry, slowly moving to other side of my neck like he has all the time in the world. And he did. He knew he did. He knew I can't deny anything to him now, so I gave him the luxury of letting him take all the time he wanted, letting him draw it all out for as long as humanly possible. My shirt had fallen open and his fingers were leaving trails of fire on my bare chest. Good God, I loved the feeling of his skin against mine. Not silky and soft, rough and calloused that fit perfectly with the musky scent of his sweat. His shirt was still buttoned and I was vaguely annoyed by the fact he was still wearing too many clothes.

I reached for the buttons and he batted my hands away again. I growled with impatience.

"All in good time," Greg said, smirking down at me. "The best things come to those who wait."

"I can't wait forever," I pointed out. Looking into his eyes I noticed they were clouded with lust, yet he was still in complete control. "And neither can you."

"Patience is a virtue, Jimmy, and virtue is its own reward." He snickered, then went back to feasting on my neck. He eventually let me unbutton his shirt, then take the rest of his clothes off, and it was well worth the wait.

* * *

"Tell me a secret," he said in the dark as he spooned up behind me.

It was the middle of the night and he was feeling chatty. But being wide awake myself I figured it wouldn't hurt to indulge him for a while.

"What kind of secret?" I asked.

"Anything. Something I don't know about you."

"You have to tell me something too."

"I will. You first. Tell me a secret."

"Give me a minute to think of something."

"Don't take too damn long."

So I began file through my memory, looking at the various pages and putting them back, trying to find something, anything that would honestly surprise him. Hhhmmmm…in high school I made the mistake of taking German. After nearly flunking and on the edge of desperation, I cheated on the final just to get the hell out of there. I still can't watch any German movies or eat German chocolate cake to this day. That was a possibility, I set it aside. In college a gorgeous blonde cheerleader got me drunk and slept with me to get back at her cheating stereotypical dumb jock boyfriend. He was going to kick my ass until she threatened to mail the pictures of his various dalliances to his parents. No, that was no good, Greg would never let me hear the end of it. I shut that one away and locked the drawer. Wait…here we go. Here was a good secret waiting to be told. I haven't that about this one in years…

"David and I stole a car once," I blurted out.

"You lie like a rug."

"I'm not lying. We stole a car."

"Why the hell did you steal a car?"

"It was just sitting there on the street with the keys in it. We just couldn't resist. Hey, we were teenagers and teenagers do dumb things. We drove it around the block and left it right where we found it. For a week we were afraid the police were going to show up and arrest us, but nothing ever came out of it. As far as I know the owner of the car never found out it had been taken for a joyride."

"You just drove the damn car around the block?"

"David drove, if you want to get technical."

"That's your big secret?"

"It's not like we snuck a suitcase full of cocaine across the border, but it was a big deal to me. Thank God my parents never found or else I'd still be grounded. You're not impressed or horrified or anything?"

"Can't say that I am. Sheesh, Jimmy, if you're going to steal a car, steal the fucking car. You might as well have washed and waxed the damn thing, too, for all the trouble you caused."

"I'll be sure to remember that. It's your turn."

He didn't even hesitate. "I slept with Cuddy."

"You're joking."

"Nope."

"Was this…recent?"

"It was years ago, long before you and I got together. You can save the brain hemorrhage for another day."

"How did…how on earth did you end up with her?" I had to admit I was honestly curious. I also had to admit that I couldn't picture them together in any way, shape or form, but decided to keep that to myself.

"I ran into her at a bar, of all places. She must have had a really bad day to end up at a bar. She saw me and asked me to give her a ride home, so I did. Then she invited me in for a drink. Sure, why not? After a few drinks she dragged me into her bedroom, threw me on her bed, and had her way with me."

"Is any of that true?"

"It's all true."

"You do realize that I'm never going to be able to look her in the eye again."

"So look at her ass. That's what I do." He chuckled and so did I. "Hey, I gave that woman the time of her life that night."

"A job well done," I deadpanned.

"Damn right. A job worth doing is worth doing well."


	9. Chapter 9

"You're living proof that God does protect idiots," Cuddy said as she walked over to his desk and inspected Greg's healing hand. The burn was now scabbed over. He still had me cleaning the wound and changing the bandage every night.

"Know that from experience, do you?" he deadpanned.

"I know that from _observation_."

"You like observing me," he noted coolly, his expression giving away nothing. "Mmmm…interesting. Do you have to take a cold shower every night when you get home after _observing_ me all day?"

Ignoring his sarcasm-something Cuddy had gotten very good at over the years-she said, "It's amazing you didn't kill yourself."

"My will to live even astounds me, as does my will to stare at your ass. Your ass is the full moon to my tides. An irresistible force. That's the real reason I'm here today."

"Doesn't it bother Wilson that you like to stare at my ass?" Cuddy asked. I couldn't help but notice that didn't look at me when she asked it.

"Why don't you ask him? He's sitting right over there, you know, and as far as I can tell he hasn't gone blind, deaf and dumb in the last few minutes."

It was time for me to speak up. "Wear the white coat more often," I offered. "Why do you think I always wear mine?"

Instead of announcing her intention to sue him for sexual harassment, she just laughed "If you are the tides, I'd have to say that you're soggy, foamy and full of seaweed, but that wouldn't make any sense. You really are amazing, House."

"And you know that from experience." He looked at me and winked.

"I'm still trying to block them all out." If she sensed that he had told me about their one night stand, she did a fantastic job of covering it up. "You're paying for the electrician."

"So bill me."

"I am. Is it safe to assume that you won't be sticking metal objects into outlets while on the clock anymore?"

"If I do it again, off the clock, will you still make me pay for the electrician?"

Cuddy glanced over at me, exasperated. I held up my hands. "Hey, I had nothing to do with the outlet thing. I'm just an innocent bystander. This is between him and…your ass."

"Yes, and assuming my will to stare at your ass brings me back again," Greg began before she had a chance rip me up one side and down the other. "I think that would deserve a reward rather than a punishment."

"House, for God's sake-"

"Cuddy, the outlets are safe and sound. You can save the hyperventilating for the budget."

"Thank you," she drolled. "Don't you have any patients?"

"Nope."

"So why aren't you catching up on your clinic hours?"

"My underlings are catching up on them for me. Kutner and Taub are really lousy at poker. They wouldn't know a bluff if it smacked them upside their heads. I won fifty bucks, they won five hours of clinic duty."

"You will do two more by the end of the week or your _ass_ is mine."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he all but purred.

* * *

The chicken salad sandwiches had settled nicely in our stomachs and he had settled on The Discovery Channel and a documentary about obese people. We were both shocked and horrified and couldn't look away from the mountains and mountains of the morbidly obese that filled the screen. From the corner of my eye I could see his jaw hanging open. Then a commercial about a forthcoming documentary about the Great Pyramids appeared. Greg was a military brat; I think even he had lost track of all the places he had lived.

"Greg, you lived in Egypt once, didn't you?"

"Yeah, a long time ago."

"Did you get to see the pyramids?"

"We were supposed to."

"Supposed to?" I puzzled. "Did something come up?"

"You could say that."

"What happened?" I pressed on.

"I…fell and hurt my leg. I couldn't walk for a while. We moved again not too long after that, so we never got another chance to go see them," he answered stonily.

A memory returned: I had made the deal with Tritter. Greg and I ended up having a huge blowout over it and I moved out for a while. Greg tricked his way into my hotel room and knocked himself on his ass with sleeping pills so I couldn't throw him out. He had woken up in a daze and didn't even know what planet he was on. Then he had asked for his father.

_Are we going to see the pyramids tomorrow, Dad? You promisedddd..._

Greg didn't just happen to hurt his leg. I knew that for a fact. But he wasn't going to confirm or deny it. Not tonight.

Was his father the reason why he hurt his leg? Was that why the promise was broken?


	10. Chapter 10

I set the bowl of soapy water down and began to take off the bandage. "What was with you and Cuddy the other day?"

"What are you yammering on about now? What about Cuddy?"

"You two were being all cute together."

"I can't help it if she wants me," he replied and chuckled to himself. "I'm just too damn sexy for my own good."

"You two were flirting," I said as I cleaned the burn, then put some aloe vera gel on his palm. The healing burn was now a red blob with the texture of rhino hide. Soon it would merge with the callous on his hand and he would forget his hand was ever burned to begin with. Unless he suddenly decided shake hands with electricity again. But I like to think he learned his lesson and would find a less life-threatening way to see if God exists. Yeah, right.

"So?" he said, sounding puzzled. "Did I break the law or something?"

"Why were you flirting with her?"

"She was flirting with me first."

"But you were still flirting with her. I was in your office, remember? I was in the chair right in front of your desk and saw the whole thing."

"She started it," he said with a dismissive wave.

"You didn't have to go along with it, especially when I was right there."

"I could have fucked her on my desk while you were right there, too, but thankfully I was able to restrain myself," Greg said sharply. I looked up to see him giving me that patented icy glare, the glare that lets me know I've crossed the invisible line that changes from day to day or even hour to hour. "My, my. So this is what the _jealous_ Jimmy Wilson looks like. It's nice to finally meet you."

I wrapped the bandage around his hand much tighter than necessary. "I'm not jealous," I mumbled as his fingertips turned red.

"Oh…right." He pulled on the bandage until his blood was flowing again. "That's why you're ready to tear my head off about it."

"I just don't need to be in the room to see that."

"So you want me to flirt behind your back?"

"No."

"I'm not allowed to flirt at all? Is that what you're saying?"

"No, I just-"

"Jimmy," he began, strangely calm. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." He paused to let the full meaning of that sink in, then said, "We were having some harmless fun. That's all. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You two were really into it."

"Cuddy was really into it. I was just playing along."

"Is that the truth?"

"Cuddy was checking on my welfare instead of threatening to kick my ass for insulting a patient or five. I'll take the harmless flirting when I can get it."

"If you say so," I said, then busied myself with closing up the aloe vera bottle and folding the towel.

"I do say so."

"Alright. Fine. It was all harmless fun. It's been a long day. I guess I'm just cranky."

"Feeling possessive of me, Jimmy?"

I knew he was grinning even though I wasn't looking at him. From the tone of his voice I could tell he liked that idea. He knew damn good and well I was possessive of him. Those bright blue eyes could see right through me and all the denying I could do. But of course, there was no denying it. And he wasn't going to let it go until he heard me say it. He would keep me up all night and torture me if that's what it took.

No need for desperate measures. No need to tie me to a chair or put me in a headlock. Relaxing a bit, I said, "After everything that's happened…all these nights of changing your bandage and making sure the burn is healing, I guess I feel protective of you. I think I have a right to feel protective of you after all we've been through."

"Not just protective," he said pointedly.

"And…possessive," I admitted. "I feel possessive of you. There, I said it. I feel possessive of you, Greg House. I think of you as mine."

"As you should."

"You're mine, Greg."

"I am."

Finally I was able to bring myself to look up and see him smiling down at me. A genuine pleased-with-me-and-himself smile. Yet there was something underneath it, a method to his brilliant madness that would soon be revealed. The bandaged hand came up and brushed my cheek, and I knew he was feeling possessive of what he considered to be his and his alone.

"I'm still going to be jealous when you flirt with anyone else," I said indignantly. "I can't help it."

"Life sucks, then I flirt with my boss," he replied smugly. Oddly, his hand continued to caress my cheek. "Yet I still come home and fuck you senseless. You, not Cuddy. I can't help that either. Still jealous, Jimmy?"


	11. Chapter 11

The commercial for the documentary about the Great Pyramids came on again. Greg didn't get to see them when he lived in Egypt because he had hurt himself in an accident. Like hell it was an accident.

"Greg?"

"What?"

"Were you disappointed that you didn't get to see the pyramids?"

He turned and gave me a funny look, like he couldn't believe I was actually asking him about it. I shouldn't have been asking, but I needed know, I needed some kind of proof that there was a reason he was the way he was. He wasn't born a snaky, moody, merciless bastard, he was made into one by a guy who made Greg-even on his worst days-look like Mr. Rogers. I wanted to know the real reason why he had been hurt and couldn't see the pyramids like his Dad had promised.

He sighed and answered, "Yeah, I guess I was."

"How did you hurt yourself?"

"I fell. I already told you that. Have you gone deaf or something?"

"You must have fallen hard to not be able to walk for a while."

"I sure did," he answered flatly, turning back to the TV and changing the channel, all the while hoping I would stop asking questions and drop it.

"What happened to your leg exactly? Why couldn't you walk?" I pressed on, knowing he would say something when I crossed his invisible line.

"I cracked my ankle, tore a few tendons and broke two toes."

"Ouch," I said before I could stop myself. It was worse than I thought. "How did that happen?"

"I tripped on the stairs."

"How?"

"How what?"

"How did you trip?"

"Why do you care?" He was starting to get irritated, but he hadn't told me to stop yet, so I didn't. "Is there some annoying question quota you have to meet today?"

"Did you trip on a shoelace or something?" I asked carefully.

"Not exactly," he answered, then frowned. "Dad needed to make a few repairs on the car and wanted me to help--hand him the tools, stuff like that. He was yelling at me to hurry the hell up and in my rush I missed a step. Instead of handing Dad wrenches and screwdrivers and pliers all day, I get handed crutches and can't walk for weeks."

Nice story. Too bad it wasn't true. Sure, _most_ of it was true, but he was leaving a detail or two out. He may have fallen down the stairs, but it didn't quite happen the way he said it did. I'm sure his Dad did more than yell at him to hurry up on the day in question.

"You don't believe in God because your father," I said. "Isn't that what you said?"

His frown deepened. "What does _that_ have to do with falling down the stairs?"

I had to ask. Either he would answer or he wouldn't. "Why do you hate your father?"

He continued to stare straight ahead, weighing the options of answering in his mind, weighing the pros and cons of letting me in on the dirty little secret of his past. Only the babble of the television in the background broke through the heavy silence. Instead of telling me to shut up and mind my own business like I expected him to, he just quietly answered, "Because he's a two-faced son of a bitch. He used to drag me kicking and screaming to church every Sunday so I could repent for _my_ sins. Apparently his don't count. I may be a colossal prick as well, but I've never pretended to be anything else."

"Did you fall down the stairs by accident?"

"You already know the answer to that," he replied stonily.

Yes, I most certainly did.

Greg went on and said, "But I still got blamed for it anyway."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't hurry up like he told me to."

I was right. His story was mostly true. "Were you really going to see the pyramids?"

"Yeah. Mom wanted to see them, and even Dad had to admit they were something to behold. I don't think Mom ever forgave him for not taking us. I heard her tearing him a new one over it." He chuckled to himself, obviously enjoying the memory. "Still, even after that he never could ease off a bit. Not that I could have ever done anything right in his eyes to begin with…"

"Did you have take a bath in ice water?"

He didn't answer, just gave me a look that told the story his words couldn't even come close to justifying. Then _Video Justice _came on and he mumbled, "Be quiet, I want to watch this."

So I shut up and watched the show with him. After a few minutes I reached over and took his hand. He didn't pull it away.


	12. Chapter 12

He was facing away from when I climbed into bed. Whenever he was in a less-than-stellar mood he usually wallowed in it for a while until someone or something or a flat-out miracle manages to distract him from his own thoughts. So I was fully prepared to jerk my hand back from his shoulder as he let loose a barrage of insults. But the insults never happened. The bedroom remained quiet and still; I took his silence to mean that he didn't mind at all what I was doing, so I spooned up behind him, intending on turning him into my quasi-pillow for the night. Apparently Greg had other plans as he turned over and all but buried his face against my neck. I was going to be his human sleeping bag for the night, but it wasn't worth complaining about so I just rested my chin on the top of his head and made myself comfortable.

"My dad knows all about us," he spoke up suddenly, startling me.

After my heart skipped and cartwheeled for a few beats and returned to normal, I asked, "You actually talked to your dad?" Then I wondered if he purposely chose the oddest times to bring up the oddest things, or if it was just weird internal timer he couldn't ignore or control or reset. "When did you tell him?"

"I didn't. Mom told him." He turned his face up so it would be easier to talk to me.

"How long ago was this?"

"I dunno…about six months ago, maybe. We have Mom's blessing, in case you're interested."

"That's nice to hear," I said sincerely, and smiled. Blythe House was one of the few people Greg truly loved and I knew her acceptance of our relationship meant a great deal to him. And to me. I hugged him closer and played with the wisps of hair on the back of his neck as he wrapped his arm around my back. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I just didn't think about it."

That was probably true. I let it slide.

"What did your dad say?" I asked.

"Take a wild guess," he replied dryly.

I could take a wild guess, all right. I had a pretty good idea of what John House said about his only child. But I wasn't going to be the one to say them.

"What did your dad say, Greg?"

"According to Mom, Dad just threw up his hands and ranted about his no-good cripple fag son and the fag Jew for a while, then mowed the lawn and edged the driveway."

"Fag Jew," I muttered under my breath. "It's better than being a fag kike, I suppose, though you'd think he'd be more original than that."

Greg gave a short laugh and said, "My dad doesn't have a creative bone in his body. He spent his entire adult life in the military, doing whatever his superiors told him without a second thought. Sure, he can hotwire a Jeep or strip down a rifle blindfolded, but talent and creativity are not the same thing. So 'fag kike' is my dad at his creative best."

"I'm honored."

"That's one way to feel about it. I prefer to think of you as a 'queer hypocrite'."

"Can I be James Wilson, or just Jimmy, instead of a fag, a queer, a hypocrite or a Jew?"

"Okay, from now on you're 'Just Jimmy'."

I walked right into that one.

"What did your mom say when you told her about us?" I asked, hoping to change the subject into something dad involve ethnic slurs and name calling, creative or otherwise.

"She hoped I could find some happiness in this relationship."

"Have you?"

"You know I have."

I smiled. "What else did she say?"

"She said you were quite the catch. Nice Jewish doctors aren't exactly falling out of the sky, you know." He said, then inched a little closer, his coarse hair tickling my nose.

"Your mom is a nice woman."

"That she is. She kept me sane while Dad dragged us all over the world."

"Why couldn't she stop your dad from hitting you?" I asked.

A full minute ticked by before he answered, "I don't know. I don't think she knows either. But she is proud of me, and that drives him nuts. She doesn't care that I'm a fag, and that drives him nuts, too. That's her way of getting back at him. What really gets under his skin, though, is the fact that no matter what, what no amount of bitching, whining, hitting, or denying can change is that I'm still a cripple, I'm still a fag, and I'm still his son."


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

After a while he slipped into a fitful and uneasy sleep. I kept as still as possible and stroked my thumb up and down his scruffy cheek because I knew he loved that and it usually helped him relax. So far he hadn't woke up and snapped at me to stop, so I kept right on doing what I was doing. It helped me relax as well. It could almost be called a fetish; I secret loved the feeling of his rough skin and beard on me. Something so different from the soft, smooth, moisturized, flowery scented skin my wives made such a fuss about. Greg was most certainly a manly man, and aside from the aloe vera on his burned hand I doubt an ounce of moisturizer had touched his skin in years.

I supposed Greg's issues with his dad are most likely the cause of his total disregard with all authority except his own. His contempt for the rules and those who enforce them could be seen as a roundabout way of saying "Fuck you" to his father. Greg once mentioned that even though his father had been retired for years he still got up at five in the morning and did one-hundred pushups, still had lunch at precisely noon, still had dinner at six on the dot, still had his wife iron his socks and boxer shorts, and still made his bed so a quarter could be bounced off of it. And God help anyone who made John House's dinner two minutes late or made him deviate from his routine.

God help anyone…I'm sure Greg would laugh his ass off at the thought.

Greg ate lunch when he felt like it, at dinner when he thought it was time, and thought making his bed was a torture dreamed up by Marquis de Sade. Greg's iron was stuffed into the back of the linen closet. I wondered if he remembered that he still had one. As long as his clothes were clean he didn't care how wrinkled they were; another "Fuck you" from Greg to his father.

"What _fooorrrrrr_?" he suddenly mumbled, his voice thick and irritated, then began to squirm and slap at my arms. He was still asleep.

I wrapped my arms around him to try and hold him still and whispered calmly into his ear, "It's okay, Greg. It's okay. It's okay-"

"_I don't want toooooo_…"

"Sssshhhh…Greg, it's okay. It's just a-"

"_Whyyyy_?" A strangled groan escaped his throat and he took another swat at my hands before giving up on whatever he had been fighting and settled back down. I felt his pulse; it was racing. I lay there with him and listened as his breathes went from fast and shallow to slow and even. My arms remain wrapped around him, and I held his rough hand in mine.

* * *

The next morning I was at the stove making us some scrambled eggs when he came shuffling up to my side.

"What we talked about last night does not go beyond these walls," he said stonily.

"What do you mean?" I asked, frowning. "That stuff about your dad?"

"Yes, that stuff about my dad. What I told you is not something that needs to get around. No one else needs to know about it." If his icy glare and clenched jaw were any indication, he was damn serious.

"My lips are sealed."

"One word to anyone and I'm stapling those lips shut permanently," he threatened.

I decided it was best to assume that he was serious and had an even more elaborate punishment in mind if I dared to spill his little secret. "You don't have to worry, Greg."

"I certainly hope not."

"You don't. Do you want some toast?"

"Two slices," he said, then poured himself a cup of coffee and took his seat at the table.

A few minutes later his breakfast was ready and I took it to the table. He even mumbled a thank you. I sat down with my plate of eggs and surreptitiously looked him over. He seemed to be a little tired, but both of us had gone to bed late and nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. Whatever had bothered him last night in his dreams last night appeared to have faded from his memory. As usual he was starving and plowed into his eggs like a man who had been stranded on a desert island for years and was just now having his first cooked meal in eons.

After he had plowed through half his plate, he turned to me and asked, "Do you ever talk to Cuddy about us?"

Hoo boy, here we go again. "She asks about how you're doing every now and then," I answered nonchalantly.

"Do you tell her anything specific?"

"No, not really. I'm not giving her detailed accounts of what we do behind closed doors if that's what you're asking. I like to think Cuddy is smart enough to know that it's none of her business."

He didn't seem entirely convinced by my answer and raised an eyebrow. "So…what do you tell her?"

"I tell her you're doing fine, and she tells me to keep an eye on you."

Strangely, he chuckled at that. "Hmph…surprise, surprise. She's babysitting me by proxy."

"She is not. Believe it or not, she does care about you."

"I know," he said, and smiled smugly into his coffee. "You give a woman the best night of her life and you have a connection forever. I can't help it if I'm that damn good."


	14. Chapter 14

"He's awfully testy today," Cuddy remarked as she walked with me to my office.

"He didn't sleep well last night," I said.

"Does he ever? What was it this time, his leg?"

"Bad dreams," I clarified. "It took a while to get him to settle down. Even then he kept mumbling for the rest of the night."

"What on earth was he dreaming about?"

"I don't know. I don't think he remembers." What I did remember was Greg's threat to staple my lips shut if I told Cuddy about his father. But this was a casual conversation with vague answers that weren't exactly top secret, so I didn't feel the need to hide my stapler just yet. "He didn't say anything about them over breakfast."

"Well," she began with a small, resigned smile, "at least I know he's eating well."

Sometimes I though Cuddy worried more about Greg than I did. "Yeah, he pretty much inhales anything I put in front of him. Malnutrition is one thing we don't have to worry about."

"His hand is healing?"

"It's getting there. I make sure it's clean and change the bandage every night."

We arrived at my office; Cuddy stood aside as I fumbled for my keys. "Is he talking about pulling another stunt like he did with the outlet?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest like she was going to ward of the wrong answer and make it right.

I pushed the door open and answered, "No, he's not. As far as formally introducing a metal object to an electrical outlet, I think it's safe to say that he won't be doing anything like that again. But anything else…who knows?"

She rolled her eyes. "What will he think of next?"

"I can't answer that." I strolled over to my desk and sat down. Cuddy stepped inside and hovered near the door. "And I can't babysit him 24 hours a day."

"I know that," she said, sounding irritated. If she was irritated at me or Greg I couldn't say.

"Then what do you want?"

"If he starts acting erratically again, I want you to tell me."

"Define erratic," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Cuddy, you do realize that he acts erratically every hour of every day. Unless we drug him and tie him to the bed we can't change that."

"What is bothering him? Why is he acting like this?" she demanded.

"It's…complicated."

She tilted her head. "How do you know it's complicated? You know what's going on with him?"

"I know, but I can't say." I glanced at my stapler. "It's private and we're trying to work through it."

"It's not private when he nearly kills himself in my hospital. What is going on?"

"It's private, Dr. Cuddy. It's going to be okay, you don't have to worry about it."

"I'm going to anyway," she said, then left.

Twenty minutes later Greg opened my office door and peeked around like he was looking for a good place to play hide-and-seek.

"She's gone?" he asked, then rather inconspicuously locked the door.

"Cuddy's not in here waiting to ambush you," I reassured him, and wondered if I could slip my stapler into my desk and lock it without him noticing.

"She was grilling you this morning," he remarked a little too casually, then gave me a look like he wasn't sure whether he was going to fuck me or kill me in the next five minutes.

"As Cuddy put it, you've been testy all day," I said coolly. "She was just asking if something was wrong, that's all."

"What did you say?"

"I said it was private and we were working it out."

"Tell any dirty little secrets?" he asked, limping over to my desk.

"No, I didn't tell her anything. I said I wouldn't and I didn't."

"How kind of you," he said, smirking down at me.

He was up to something, and it was going to involve me one way or another. "Why did you lock the door, Greg?" I asked as he all but loomed over me.

"I want some privacy," he said in a low, salacious voice.

I asked, "What for?" even though I realized exactly what was on his mind and it didn't involve new uses for office supplies.

With the smirk still plastered on his face, he sat down at the edge of my desk and started to loosen my tie. "Because I feel like giving Cuddy something worth talking about."

"Do you think that's a good idea?" I gulped, unable to move.

"I don't see you stopping me," he growled, pulling off my forest green silk tie.

"That's because I don't want you to stop," I said, then pulled him down and crushed my mouth against his.


	15. Chapter 15

He was sitting on my lap, disheveled, shirt hanging open, his chest and face still flushed. God, he was gorgeous like that. Almost too gorgeous and completely irresistible. Not that I could have resisted him even if I had wanted to. To be completely honest, if I could have gotten away with it, I would have stayed with him in my locked office all day. Just spend hour after hour enjoying the hell out of each other.

My own shirt was opened down to the waist. Other than that both of us were still pretty much fully clothed. Make no mistake, he wanted all of my clothes off; and I don't think I have to tell you how much he bitched and moaned when I wouldn't let him. It was either the impromptu necking session or nothing at all, I had told him. Necking it was, and my neck and chin were still burning and itching from his prickly stubble.

"We need to get back to work," I said, gently trying to push him off.

He stayed put and all but growled at me, "A few more minutes."

My pushing became more insistent. "I have a patient to see in fifteen minutes."

"You have fifteen minutes. What's the hurry?"

"I would like to look presentable, if that's all right with you." After a few less-than-subtle shoves, he finally stood up, grabbed his jacket off the desk and promptly limped over to the couch. I stood up as well and began to button up my now wrinkled-beyond-recognition shirt. "What did you do with my tie?"

"It's on the floor somewhere."

"That tie cost nearly two hundred dollars!" I protested, finding it under one of the wheels of my chair and snatched it up. "Next time put it on top of the desk. If you can put that ratty jacket there, you are certainly capable of putting my tie there too."

"I'd rather put _you_ on top of the desk, if you know what I mean and I think you do."

"Greg…" I began with a sigh, then just shook my head without saying anything else. Arguing with him could be put aside for the time being. My patient was waiting and I needed to get ready.

He watched as I slipped the silky fabric around my neck and began to retie it. "You actually paid two hundred dollars for one fucking tie?"

"Yes, I did. In the future, please be a little more careful."

"Next time don't wear a tie, that way neither of us will have to worry about it anymore." Even though he was now looking down at his hands as he fumbled with his shirt buttons, I could still see the shit-eating grin and hear the faint snickering.

"And just what are you laughing at?" I asked.

"I'm laughing at you getting your panties in a bunch. Poor little Jimmy, spends a good twenty minutes sucking my ribs up my neck without a second thought, and _now_ he's all worried about his appearance. Is it me or is that just a tad bit fucked up? Am I the only one who sees what's wrong with this picture?"

This picture was all kinds of wrong, and I saw it clear as day. What the hell was I doing? I'm not a teenager sneaking my prom date up to my bedroom, for crying out loud. Though it may have felt right--not to mention fun--at the time, this was way over the line. It really shouldn't have happened in the first place. No matter how gorgeous and irresistible he was or may be in the future, this had to stop right here and now. "No, you're not the only one," I admitted. "We can't do this anymore. No more necking in my office."

"How about in my office?"

"Your office has glass walls, remember? Not a good idea. No more necking here in the hospital, period. Do I make myself clear?"

"Killjoy," he grumbled.

"So be it. We're doctors, professionals. How about we act like it?"

"I never have," he said with dismissive wave of his hand.

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't," I replied as I began to tuck my shirt in. "But you're still a damned good doctor. Surely that means something to you."

He was quiet for nearly a minute. So…he did care about being a good doctor. I filed that one away for later. "Just because we're doctors doesn't mean we aren't allowed to have a little fun every now and then," Greg said.

I smoothed down my hair. "I agree, we are entitled to have fun. But off the clock."

He frowned. "You mean it? No more necking in your office?"

"Yes, Greg, I mean it."

"No more necking in the elevator?"

"Nope. We can neck to our hearts' content back at the apartment." I put on the white coat, collected my patient's file, and gestured toward the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to see my patient now."

Reluctantly, he pulled himself up and limped to the door. Then he stood by it and waited for me to come over there and unlock it. Of course, he could have unlocked the damn thing himself since he locked it to begin with, but that would have put a crimp in his evil plan. He waited for me to come to him for a reason. That reason was made crystal clear the second I unlocked the door and began to turn the handle; he grabbed my tie and yanked me into the longest, deepest kiss I ever had in my life. My head swam. The room disappeared. My patient's file slipped out of my hand and spilled onto the floor. He couldn't have planned it better if he tried.

"If you change your mind about that necking thing," he said after we finally had to come up for air, "you know where I am." He looked down at the mess of papers and cackled. "Better get that file back in order. Your patient is waiting."

He opened the door as I stood there dumbly and surveyed the damage, stepped over the papers and whistled as he limped down the corridor.


	16. Chapter 16

Whatever Greg didn't get a chance to do in my office, he more than got around to doing on the sofa later that evening. Apparently he took my comment about necking to our heart's content back in the apartment very seriously. To put it another way, I was groped, fondled, pawed, stroked, manhandled, kissed, sucked on and slobbered all over. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I returned it all with interest and postage due. By the time we were finished both of us looked like packages torn open in a frenzy.

So after I was kind enough and thirsty enough to bring us both a beer, I was slumped on the sofa, holding said beer with one hand and stroking Greg's neck with the other. My shirt was once again hanging open, and somewhere along the way I had lost one of my socks. Thankfully my tie was still on the table and still neatly folded just like when I had put it there. On the other hand, Greg had shed his shirt sometime our kissing rampage and was wearing nothing except his jeans and a lopsided grin. Said shirt was hanging off the back of the sofa and his shoes had somehow ended up in by the kitchen doorway. He was lounging against me, flushed and warm and very nice to touch. He had also been very nice to grope, fondle and slobber all over as well.

"We could have done all this in your office," he said, then took a long pull of his beer.

"No beer in my office," I pointed out.

"Hmmm…okay, we could have done all this except drink beer in your office."

"We could have been caught, locked door or no locked door."

"The thought that we might get caught doesn't give you a thrill?" he asked, turning to look at me expectantly, honestly wanting an answer.

"I admit it does kind of give me a thrill, but the fear of being fired kind of overrides that. I'm not going to lose my job because you want to make out with me in the middle of the work day."

"Pussy."

"Nympho."

He laughed at that, and I was more than happy to see him relaxing and enjoying himself. I was happy that he was happy. I put my arm around his shoulder and hugged him closer, taking in his intoxicating scent and half-hearted protest. The hand that had been badly burned grabbed my arm. The bandage was off now, and the thick patch of scar tissue ran over my wrist. His burned hand, his futile search for a God he didn't believe existed. What had he really been looking for the moment he decided to introduce the knife to the outlet? I'd probably never know, probably didn't want to know, and didn't want to spoil his good mood by asking. He hadn't mentioned that little incident in a while, and I liked to think it was because he had realized it was time to move beyond it and move forward with us.

"You were all I could think of today," Greg said softly, the burned hand reaching over to caress my cheek.

I leaned into his touch, unable to resist, not wanting to resist. My eyes met his and in instant I was drowning in their endless blue. His eyes often told me what his words couldn't, and this time was no exception--all the affection he had kept suppressed behind closed doors and general bitterness, all the long-dormant love he was finally letting himself feel, all the pain he couldn't control. Those were things he showed to me and only me because he knew I wasn't going to judge him or shame him or push him away. Because in the end, no matter how angry, crazy, sad, troubled, frustrated, scared, or insane he made me, I still came back for more. He was my addiction, my drug, my world. I wanted more and more and more and could never get enough.

"No cases to think about?" I inquired.

"Nope. Just the usual idiots filling up the clinic. That left plenty of time for you."

I tilted my head and said, "I'm honored that you chose me to kill some time today."

"You should be," Greg told me, and I had the strange feeling that he actually meant it.

To tell the truth, I was a bit honored, but I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that. If I did he would tease me until I hung myself from the shower rod. Instead I just asked, "How exactly did you think of me?"

"I thought about you taking off your precious tie."

"That can't be all you thought about."

"It wasn't," he reassured me. "You put your tie on the desk, then you kissed me the way I kissed you before you dropped your patient file."

"That was a pretty hot kiss," I admitted.

"Damn right it was. After you kissed me you turned around and swept everything off your desk."

"Even my tie?" I looked over at my tie on the table. I thought about reaching for it but didn't want to be too obvious.

"Even your stupid tie," he continued. "All your precious pens and desk blotters were just a great big mess on the floor and you didn't care. Then you threw me down on your suddenly roomy desk."

"Greg, do I even need to ask where this going?"

"No, not really. You tore my shirt open and started kissing my chest, working your way down and then you started to take off my belt and-"

"Okay, I get it. You don't need to get into amazing Technicolor detail," I protested. "Christ, no wonder you attacked me the second we got home."

"You loved it."

Sheepishly, I admitted, "Yeah, I did."

"Good," he said with a chuckle. "It's only fair to warn you that the desk fantasy is going to become a reality."

"Is it now?"

"Yes it is," Greg replied an obscene amount of glee in his voice. "It'll happen, but with a few twists. First, the roles are going to be reversed. Two, it's going to happen when you least expect it."


	17. Chapter 17

He put his shirt back on after complaining of being cold, yet left it unbuttoned. After I asked him how he expected to warm up after leaving the shirt wide open he answered, "That's what you're for" and spent the rest of the evening wrapped in my arms. No complaints there; it was as enjoyable as the necking session and I didn't have to worry about getting covered with drool. Instead I got to run my hands up and down his chest and belly, relishing the feeling his warm, smooth skin under my palms, and plant the occasional kiss on the nape of his neck. A quiet night spent all over each other. I couldn't ask for anything better. I loved every second of it and he loved it even more.

"Are all fag Jews and queer hypocrites as good as you?" he asked.

I couldn't tell if he wanted a serious answer or not, so I just asked, "In what way?"

"Any which way."

After pondering that for a moment, I answered, "I'm the only fag Jew and queer hypocrite I know of around these parts, so the answer would have to be no."

"That's too bad."

"What is?"

"You being the only of your kind."

"How so?" I asked, wondering where on earth he was going with this and if I wanted to be there when he reached his intended destination. "Why am I the only one of my kind? Am I some kind of alien or something?"

"That's not what I'm talking about, Jimmy."

"Well then, would you be so kind as to tell me what the hell you are talking about?

"Get me another beer and I'll tell you."

"Tell me and I'll get you another beer."

"I can get my own beer and not tell you at all," he said, sitting up.

"No!" He wasn't going to hold out on me, not this time. I pushed him back down and noticed the self-satisfied grin. The man certainly knows how to get me to do his bidding and make me like it. "I'm kind of thirsty myself. Just hang on a second."

A minute later we were sitting side-by-side taking a long pull of the delicious cold beer. The last two, so we had to make them last…or switch to ginger ale if we really got desperate. I knew I would be making a beer run before coming back home tomorrow or he wasn't going to let me in the door.

"So tell me," I began, nudging him in the ribs.

He took another sip of beer before saying, "I spent my childhood listening to my dad tell me I was never good enough--my grades weren't good enough, my friends weren't good enough, I wasn't good enough at the sports I played. I heard that day in and day out."

I frowned at his suddenly blasé attitude about what must be some painful childhood memories. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Here and now there is a certain fag Jew with a heart of gold who considers me the love of his life. I'm most certainly more than good enough for you."

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Haven't you been listening to me?" He stared at me, wide-eyed. "No, I don't have a problem with that. My stupid homophobe freak of a father has a problem with that, along with everything else about me and you."

"What about you, Greg? What do you think about that?""

"If you want to know the truth, when I think about it, this no-good fag cripple finds it absolutely fucking hilarious."

He threw his head back and laughed, and I had to laugh right along with him. It wasn't often that he laughed like that--a deep belly laugh that only came out when he was watching something funny on television. But this wasn't television, this was real life, his life, a life where he had had more than his fair of pain and abuse. Somewhere, somehow, he found something in it all that he could laugh at. If he hadn't been laughing I knew he'd brooding, skulking around and throwing random things at the wall. That explained his blasé attitude from earlier; he was keeping himself from losing his temper or breaking down into tears. Now it was either laugh or cry and the former suited both of us just fine.

When he caught his breath again, Greg wiped the tears from his eyes and panted out, "Oh man…if my dad could see us now…"

"What would he say?"

"Well, he'd just call us fags. Like I said before, he doesn't have a creative bone in his body. And if he could somehow manage to pick himself off the floor from the stroke he will have if he ever sees us sitting together with our shirts undone, the second stroke at the sight of you with your hands all over me would definitely finish him off. Fags like us are the decline of Western Civilization as we know it. Didn't you get the memo?"

"No, I didn't." I snickered at that and added, "Don't forget Jews are going to take over the world after all the fags are finished redecorating it."

"Yeah, like I believe that for a minute."

"You don't?" I teased.

"Well, Jimmy, you're either trying to save the world or riding me like a pogostick, so I don't think there's any time left in your schedule to put your diabolical world domination plan into motion."

"Damn, I'll have to look into that," I deadpanned, then held up my bottle of beer. "Here's to fags like us."

"And Jews," Greg added.

"And world domination."

"And fag Jews dominating the world," he said and clinked his beer bottle with mine, which sent us into more gales of laughter.

Soon both of us were laughing so hard we had to put the bottles down before we ended up showering ourselves the last of the beer.


	18. Chapter 18

He pulled me over to him until I was straddling his lap. The mixture of beer and laughter and all around giddiness had left him in one of his fabulously weird moods. But weird moods are better than bad moods, and I'll take said weirdness any day of the week and twice on Sunday. He looked up at me with a crooked half-smile that told me he liked what he was seeing. Suddenly I was struck with the urge to know exactly what was on his mind.

"What do you see when you look at me?" I asked.

Strangely, he didn't seem surprised by the question. He answered without hesitation, "A good person."

"Is that it?"

"I could say that a Jewish fag is sitting on my lap, but that would stating the obvious."

"Tell me what you see," I pressed on. "I want to know."

"You're a better person than I am. How about that?"

"You're a good person, Greg. And a good doctor." I traced a finger along his bottom lip. "You're one of the best doctors I've ever seen."

As usual, he couldn't take a honest compliment. "If I were an oncologist, that might actually make sense," he said.

"Just because you're not an oncologist doesn't mean it isn't the truth."

"You're still the better person," he said, gently pushing me over until I was on my back.

I moved over a bit so he would have room to stretch out on his left side, then he propped up on an elbow and hooked his right leg over my hip to keep me in place. Not that I was planning to get up and travel to Europe at that very second, but apparently Greg wasn't taking any chances. No matter how cocky or arrogant he got, there was still that nagging insecurity in him. The same insecurity that fed his pathological neediness. The same insecurity that was afraid I was going to come to the realization that I was too good for him and was just going to walk out. The same insecurity that I had no doubt spoke to him in his father's voice. Sometimes Greg seemed to forget that I'm the one who pursued a relationship with him to begin with, that I was the one who moved in to his apartment and made plans to make some moves on him. Not that it mattered to him, all that mattered now was the fact that his possessiveness of what he considers _his_ was taking over and he's playing with the hem of my shirt.

That crooked half-smile returns and it reaches his eyes, bringing an extra light to the crystal blue. He close enough for me to see the cobalt and bottle green highlights in his eyes, eyes that now looking me over as if seeing me for the first time. He let go of my shirt and took my hand, bringing it up to his scruffy cheek. The light in his eyes brightened in appreciation, in the knowledge that I accepted him and his flaws.

But he still hadn't answered my question.

"What do you see, Greg? What do you see when you look at me?"

"I already told you," he replied as my hand ran over his stubble, making a soft sandpapery sound.

"That wasn't an answer; that was a vague response."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you want to know? Why is this suddenly so important to you?"

"I want to hear it in your own words."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

He was puzzled, and I couldn't really blame him. If this situation called for a lightning-quick retort or insult he'd have a million of them ready and would have shot them off before I knew what hit me. That's what he's good at. That's what was expected of him. But asking him to reach within himself, to put his feelings into words, well, that's something everyone else knows not to ask of him. Except me. I really should know better by now; I'm probably going to get a snarky response that will cut to the bone. Like Greg's insecurity, my pathological need to be needed was speaking to me in my dead brother's voice, telling me I had to know the answer to my question.

"I can't answer that," he said quietly, almost sounding regretful.

"Why not?"

"We'll be here all night," he said as a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You'll have to live with the vague answer because that's all you're going to get."

"That can't be all," I protested.

"It is."

Like hell. "Can't you give me a…something like a condensed version? Or just a little part of it?"

"A little part of it," Greg echoed with a chuckle. "Like the first few opening sentences. Will that do?"

"Yeah, that'll work."

"All right." He began to trace a finger along my bottom lip, just like I had done to him earlier. "You keep me grounded. You keep me sane. You make me realize there is still some good in this world. You're there for me. And you're a pretty damn good cook."

I gave a short laugh at the cook comment. It would have been more, but my jaw was hanging open from the comments that came before it.

"Thank you, Greg."

"You're welcome," he said with complete sincerity. He lay down and kissed my neck, warm puffs his breath on the sensitive skin. "Remember that time you moved out for a while?"

"Yeah," I said and cringed at the memory.

"Remember how awful it was?"

"All too well."

"You weren't the only who suffered, Jimmy," he said, and kissed my neck again. "You weren't the only one who was relieved when you came back home."


	19. Chapter 19

It had been an hour since he had gotten up. I had woken up when he had carefully nudged me aside, but I didn't say anything. I don't think he knew I was awake as he limped to the living room. I watched the golden light under the door and listened to the dull roar of a monster truck show turned downed to a reasonably low volume. He was out there with his feet on the table, a glass of bourbon in hand. I didn't need to get up to see that. Too comfortable and too tired to get up, I just hugged his pillow.

_You weren't the only one who suffered, Jimmy. You weren't the only who was relieved when you came back home._

Earlier I was in his arms, first on the sofa, then in the bed. He had been all over me most of the night-not that I'm complaining-and I couldn't think of a nicer way to end it. He let me curl up with him and I let him trail his fingers through my hair. Such a soothing, comforting gesture combined with inevitable tiredness that comes with a long day of work and a long night of us necking like two horny prom-goers, and I was out like a light.

I could have sworn I heard him say, "Sleep tight, Jimmy" before I fell asleep. Not that he would own up to it even if it had been caught on videotape and rick-rolled into every YouTube video in existence.

The whole looking-for-God-in-the-wrong-places event appeared to be behind him. The electrical outlets of Princeton can consider themselves safe once again. Greg was still a staunch atheist bastard, but he will think twice if another bizarre quest to find the God he didn't believe in might include bodily harm. At least I hope so since the aftermath wasn't pretty the first time around. The memory of that nasty burn still made me cringe. But maybe that was the whole point--the burn was a sign from God. For a second I thought about getting up telling Greg, then a second later I knew it would an exercise in futility. He would just point out that God killed the believer while saving the atheist. Where was the logic in that? There wasn't any, and if Greg didn't believe now, he certainly wasn't going to in the twenty minutes it would take to argue about it.

But Greg's father…that was a different story.

I've met John House a few times. He was always polite to me, I'll give him that much, but that was before he knew I was a Jewish fag. But any idiot, Jewish fag or not, could definitely sense the frostiness between him and his only son. A passive-aggressive insult here, a backhanded compliment there. I could tell it took everything they had to remain civil. If Blythe House hadn't been there, one or both of them would have ended up going home with a black eye.

The hatred Greg had for his father burned with a white-hot intensity. It was easy to see why Greg didn't like to talk about him; more often than not it got him riled up to the point where it took many hours and many more drinks of alcohol for him to come back down. If half the things he said about John House were true…pushing his son down the stairs, ice-water baths, sleeping in the yard. It would have been surprising if Greg _didn't_ end up hating his father with a passion.

However, those are just the things Greg is willing to admit. He may have tweaked it here and there, but the basic theme remains the same--he was abused, no question about it.

But what is he keeping secret?

Are there worse things hiding in Greg House's memories? And would I want to know if he offered to tell me?

Probably not. But ever he ever did tell me I would certainly listen to what he had to say, no matter how revolting it might turn out to be. Because Greg knows I'll listen, I won't judge him, and I won't blab about it to anyone else.

The monster trucks were suddenly silenced and I heard the sofa creak as he stood up. The uneven thumps of his footsteps and faint tap of his cane brought him closer to the door. His shadow passed over the golden light, then disappeared. He was on his way to the bathroom first.

I put his pillow back and rolled over to my side of the bed so my back would facing him when he came back in. He didn't know he had woken me up and I didn't want him to know. He didn't like it when I sat up with him during his insomnia episodes; he told me just because he couldn't sleep that didn't mean I had stay up as well. I told him I could stay up as late as I wanted, I was an adult just like he was and didn't have a set bedtime. Needless to say, that went over like a lead balloon. So now I only sit up with him if I'm having an episode of insomnia myself or had had a particularly bad day and needed some extra comfort.

The toilet flushed and Greg sneezed as he made his way back to the bedroom. The tapping of the cane grew closer, then a faint click as he hooked it around the bedpost. He grunted as he sat on the bed, then grunted again as he lifted his leg onto the mattress. I didn't move or make a sound.

He shifted over until he was spooned up behind me. I felt him rearrange the blankets until he was satisfied, then he buried his face in the back of my neck and was snoring in no time. I smiled, then took his hand in mine as I drifted back to sleep.

Sometimes Greg, whether he actually realized it or not, needed a little extra comfort, too.


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Last chapter. Special thanks to all my readers. Super-duper special thanks to Purridot. :)_

* * *

"Come on," I said, shaking his shoulder. "Rise and shine. Time to get up."

"It can't be," Greg mumbled into the pillow and threw the covers over his head.

"It is. No pancakes today, there isn't enough flour. You can have the rest of the waffles if you want."

"How Gandhi-esque of you," was his muffled reply.

"Thank you," I said. "I do what I can to keep the peace around here."

"It was a crime when the Nobel people gave the nomination to that Bono dude."

I shook my head at his remark. He never seemed to run out of them. They were like candy bars in a vending machine; if he took one there was another spiraling up in its place, waiting for the right amount of change to be deposited. I threw back my half of the covers and got up; he didn't move a muscle.

"Greg," I sighed, walked over and threw the covers off him. He moaned and tried to pulled them back up. I tossed them to the foot of the bed and grabbed his wrists. "If you don't get up now you're not going to have time to eat. Now let's go. I don't know about you but I'm hungry."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…You better get some goddamn flour soon, that's all I have to say," he griped.

"I will."

"Why didn't you get any the last time you were at the store?"

"I was in a hurry and forgot."

"What kind of waffles do we have?"

"Blueberry. Now get up."

He sat up and gave me a strange, solemn look. "Where do you think that kid is?"

I frowned. "What kid?"

"The one who showed me how to look for God in the outlets. Where do you think he is now?"

At first I thought it was a joke and nearly laughed. Then Greg looked at me expectantly, wanting an answer I didn't have. Like his mood swings and his random tests of my limits, his rare moments of concern over the fate of another human being came at odd times. I sat down, cleared my throat, and hoped he was looking for a plain and simple answer to his question. "I'd like to think he's in a better place," I said quietly.

"You think he's in heaven?" he asked in all seriousness.

"I hope so."

"He wound up killing himself," Greg said. "Isn't suicide a sin?"

"From what you told me, he didn't set out to kill himself. It wasn't suicide. He just happened to die."

Greg looked down at the tangle of blankets and sheets and said, "You don't think he's just in a wooden box covered by six feet of dirt?"

"His soul isn't, no."

"Yeah…well…," he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. "Wherever he is, at least he found what he was looking for."

"What about you?" I asked, handing him his cane.

"I stuck a knife into an outlet looking for God and all I got was a lousy burned hand," he answered with his trademark smirk. "God didn't even give me a tee shirt for my trouble, the cheap bastard."

"I'm glad it wasn't worse," I said.

"So am I," he said a little too nonchalantly.

We walked to the kitchen. He sat down and watched me put some water on for coffee and get his waffles out of the freezer.

I had just turned on the toaster when I heard him say, "You put up with a lot from me."

"So?" I poured us each a cup of coffee and sat at the table with him. "Did you just figure that out? Is that supposed to be some kind of big revelation or something?"

"Anyone else would have bolted a long time ago."

"I'm not anyone else, and neither are you," I said, watching the steam rise out of my cup. Then I smiled and told him, "You're as God made you."

He had been taking a sip of coffee when I said that and nearly choked on it. Much to my surprise he laughed instead of ripping me up one side and down the other.

"That was a compliment, Greg."

"Yeah," he replied quietly, setting his coffee down to let it cool for a while. "I know you meant it that way."

--The End.


End file.
